Blame
by CrazyJaney
Summary: Spoilers for What Lies Beneath. Peter doesn't believe she can be so accepting of what he did. Neither can she. P/O


a/n: I'm new to Fringe fanfiction! I've written a lot for other fandoms, but after _What Lie Beneath, _I knew I had to try my hand at this fandom. So let me know how I did! Reviews are very much appreciated! Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

Blame

She didn't hate him. That was a relief. But at the same time, it wasn't. She _should _hate him. He'd attacked her. Tried to kill her. And she'd just smiled and said it wasn't his fault. He wasn't himself.

_Excuses, _his mind whispered.

_God. _Peter sighed and shook his head. He just didn't understand her. A normal woman would be afraid of him after that. A normal woman would avoid him after that. A normal woman would _hate _him after that. But then, he'd almost forgotten, Olivia was not a normal woman. Not in the traditional sense.

She was an FBI agent. Working with the abnormal everyday. Of course she wouldn't be normal. At least not anymore.

He stood up from the bench he'd been occupying. Sitting there thinking about it wasn't going to change the way he felt. He wanted to apologize again. Make her understand. You don't just go around attacking women you love.

Oh, that sounded so pathetic, even to him, in his head. And he hadn't even tried to voice it yet. "Jesus," he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck where tension had been building up steadily all day.

He had no idea what he was going to say to her. Tell her that it wasn't all right. That she couldn't be all right. He'd seen the fear in her eyes when he was coming after her. The recognition. The association of his hands with violence. And that wasn't okay. She said it was, but it couldn't be.

She couldn't be telling the truth. She had to still be afraid. With that thought he set off towards her apartment. He knew what he was going to say to her.

-----------------

Olivia couldn't sleep. Every time she shut her eyes she saw his. Angry and hurt, they bore into hers. _Your fault. _She shook her head, willing the images, the thoughts, away. He hadn't been himself, she kept reminding herself.

_He's not going to attack you again. He apologized. He didn't mean it. _These thoughts were continuous, running into one another like a mantra till she could think of little else. She closed her eyes and clutched at her head.

"Shit," she whispered, reaching into the liquor cabinet. She didn't have much. She pulled the hardest liquor she owned. A bottle of Jack. It was open. It had been for a few weeks. She'd been using it as a comfort more and more lately.

She sighed and poured herself a glass before sitting down with both the bottle and the glass in front of her. She takes a swig and appreciates the burn. It's real, unlike the ghosts running around her head. She concentrated on the burn, but the same thoughts kept creeping in. _Your fault. You shouldn't have left him. You should have gone back. _She could see it all clearly in her mind's eye.

He was coming at her, violence shining in his eyes. _Your fault. _She watched the scene replay as he countered her every move until he had one hand over her wrist and the other wrapped around her throat, cutting off her oxygen. It wasn't fair, she wailed to herself, all she wanted was to help him... He pulled her head up off the car with the hand around her neck and slammed it back down, disorienting her for a moment before repeating the process.

She shook her head, wishing she could shake the memories that were giving her nightmares as easily. Her fingers drifted to her neck where she had seen the bruising starting to take effect. Her neck was a ring of black and purple blemishes, marring her otherwise snowy skin. She felt her eyes water as she remembered the pain, emotional as well as physical. Some small part of her died when he had come after her.

She was shocked from her musings by a knock at the door. She shot a confused glance towards the clock. It was well past her bedtime, which was well past everyone else's bedtime. Her brows knit in confusion she stood up and walked to the door. A glance out the peek hole told her who was on the other side.

Her heart began to pound as she contemplated opening the door. What to do? She could open the door, let him in, like nothing had happened. Oh, but the scarred part of her mind was whispering all sorts of horrors to her. Like opening the door to another assault, this one fatal.

She shook herself. She was being stupid. He hadn't been himself. She'd said so herself. She dragged a hand through her hair and unlocked the door before opening it.

"Peter?" She was squinting at him as she held the door. "What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?" she asked.

He blinked. He'd forgotten that he couldn't sleep and taken a walk. That seemed like it had been so long ago. "Yes," he replied after a moment. "There's something I have to say to you."

She fought down the panic. Something to say. Was he going to leave? Because of what he did? A whole new fear blossomed within her. "All right. Come inside."

He walked in past her without any contact and she shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief. He hovered in the foyer area, not sure where to go from there. It seemed to presumptuous to him. Instead he waited for her to lead the way, which she did after a second. She led him into the kitchen and pulled another glass from a cabinet.

She poured him a glass without asking if he wanted it. He accepted it and sat down opposite where her glass was stationed at the island. It only seemed appropriate. After a brief moment of silence she chose to speak.

"What did you want to say?" she asked, sitting down.

His eyes flickered up from his glass to meet her own. Within his eyes she read a wealth of things that caused her breath to catch in her throat. Pain. Regret. Hurt. Shame. They were all present.

"I'm sorry, Olivia." He pronounced every word carefully and precisely.

"Peter-" she started, shaking her head at him, but he stopped her.

"I'm not done. Don't tell me that it's okay, or that it's not my fault. It is. And no amount of pretending is going to change that." He paused to down the contents of his drink. "There's absolutely no excuse for what I did."

"Look, I'm over it," she lied to him, managing a smile. "You needn't have bothered."

He let out his breath and laughed low in his throat. She didn't understand. "Olivia, what I did horrified me when I realized what I'd done. I never want to see you hurt. Especially by my hand."

She didn't say anything, letting his words crash down on her. She knew he would never hurt her, that he had never wanted to hurt her. She'd told him so. But she hadn't told him the whole truth, either. She hadn't told him how scared she'd been, how afraid _for _him she'd been. She met his eyes and let the pain show through, if only for a moment.

"I know you'd never hurt me," she started, placing her hands flat on the surface of the island to act as a balance. "But I couldn't help but think that the reason you were acting the way you were... That it was my fault. I should have never left you alone in that building."

"No, Olivia, how can you-"

"Do you remember? What you were shouting at me the whole time?" Her eyes were bright, trying to make him see what she was trying to confess. "I didn't know what else to think."

"It wasn't your fault."

She didn't realize it, but she'd been waiting to hear those words. It was like a sort of release. She let out a shaky breath and almost laughed. After wondering for the last two days, it was clear. He didn't blame her for anything.

"It wasn't your fault, either," she replied, smiling slightly. "No matter what you think, it wasn't your fault."

He sighed. It wasn't going quite how he'd imagined, but at least she'd opened up enough to let him see that he was right. She had been scarred by the incident. She hadn't escaped with her sanity completely intact. He wanted to fix that.

"I'll never raise my hand to you," he vowed, standing up and moving around the island till he was standing next to her. "I could never."

She graced him with a smile, this one brighter than the last. "I know. I know you wouldn't."

He didn't know where to go from there. There was still so much he wanted to tell her, so much left unsaid. He didn't know how to put words to it. How do you tell someone that they mean the world to you? Just like that? Just say it? He didn't know.

"Liv," he began, wanting to say _something, anything._

"Peter," she answered in kind. "I..."

"I could never hurt you because it would break me," he said at last, shoving his hands in his pockets to prevent them from doing something he might regret. Like grabbing her and kissing her senseless.

She didn't know what to say to that. How do you respond to that kind of intensity? Tell him that he had the power to break her, too? That she could never watch him leave because that would break her? Tell him that she loved him and couldn't live without him, even if all he could offer her was his friendship? She didn't know.

"Peter," she finally said, standing up as well.

"You don't have to say anything. Just know... You mean a lot to me." His eyes were sober and his expression serious. He meant every word.

"You mean a lot to me, too," she told him. She didn't have any pockets in her pajama pants to put her hands. She settled on fisting them into the material instead. She didn't want to do anything stupid. But one of her hands refused to stay where she'd told them to stay put and strayed up to hover just over his cheek. "More than you know."

His hand found its way out of his pocket to grasp her wrist. At first she was shocked. He was going to push her away. She started to pull her hand away, not wanting to upset him, when he pressed her palm to his cheek. He leaned into the caress and pressed a chaste kiss to the center of her palm.

His eyes flickered down to meet hers. He saw surprise and hunger in their depths. The surprise died away and she pressed her other hand to his other cheek. His hand slid down her arm to follow the curves of her side until it was resting on her hip where his other hand freed itself from its pocket prison until it was also resting on her hip.

Her eyes were still locked with his and there was a growing determination flashing through them. "I love you, Peter Bishop," she whispered and then slowly stretched up on her tiptoes to press her lips ever so carefully to his.

When he responded just as carefully, she knew she would no longer have nightmares about this man. She would be able to sleep again.

Because he would be right there beside her.

a/n: Well? Drop a line, please! :D


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